Five Times She Misses Him
by twentysevenseconds
Summary: E/D. Angst. Character death.
1. Funeral

**A/N: This is just a depressing little idea that wouldn't get out of my head. All of the chapters will be relatively short, just little drabbles like this one. I'm hoping it'll cure my writers' block. Please review.**

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The first time she misses him so much she can't breathe, she's at his funeral. She's sitting between Kitty and Kelso, wearing a long black dress Jackie must have picked out - she can't remember putting it on. Her shoes are too tight, her eyes are too dry, and her chest feels like it might explode.

On the other side of Kelso, Hyde is crying. She's known Hyde for half her life; she's never seen him cry. Jackie has gone through an entire box and a half of Kleenex since they'd been at the church. Kitty has been sniffling for three days. Even Red is crying. She didn't think he had tear ducts.

So why the hell can't _she_ cry?

The preacher is talking again. Saying something about how he was taken too soon. She closes her eyes for a moment. When she reopens them, she refocuses on his casket. It's closed. They say he was too mangled from the accident; it would disturb people. She brings her hand up to cover her mouth at the thought. Her mouth twitches and she feels tears prickling, but the moment passes. Next to her, Kelso stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He's got tears running down both sides of his face. Hyde scoots over and takes his place; sets his hand on top of hers.

They haven't left her alone since he died three days ago. Everyone had decided that she should stay at Jackie and Hyde's house for the next couple of days. They'd given up their master bedroom for her. But their bed was too hard. It would make Eric's back hurt. Everyone's been tiptoeing around her all week. Talking in whispers, offering to cook for her, bringing her flowers and cards. As if any of that could fill the huge hole in her heart. The huge hole she's afraid is always gonna be there. But still she can't cry.

She feels numb as they walk out to the cemetery. Her dad is clutching onto her right arm, and Jackie is holding onto her left hand. They're both crying. She's just looking around. It's cloudy out; looks like it might rain. Fitting.

When they reach the sight of his grave, everyone crowds closer together. It's like a sea of black, as she looks out over the droves of people who've gathered to watch Eric be buried. The preacher talks some more. She doesn't pay attention. She doesn't care. She knows how amazing he was. As if anyone needs to tell _her_ that.

She feels like she's floating above the graveyard, watching as they bring his casket forward. Now people are setting their hands on it. Someone nudges her forward. She ghosts her right hand over the glossy top, along with all of her friends and family. Slowly, she unclenches her fist. Spreads her fingers out lovingly. Caresses it, gently. And then, just like that, it's over. She feels her dad gently pulling her shoulders back. Next to her, she hears Hyde whisper, "Bye, Eric."

There's something so... final about the visual of his casket being lowered into the ground. About Hyde's hollow words. And that's when she finally falls apart.


	2. Coffee cups

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys. Here's a quick update for ya.**

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The second time it happens, it's two weeks after his funeral. Although she hasn't been to work since that day and doesn't plan on going back anytime soon, she's started going for a run every morning. It clears her head. The pure rhythm of it, the chill of the early morning air on her face, the sun rising before her; it gives her something to think about other than... it. Him.

She sees their- no, _her_, brown two-story looming at the end of the street, but, on a whim, turns the corner instead of continuing straight. She's just not quite ready to face her life yet this morning.

Finally, after two extra laps around the neighborhood, she pants as she lets herself in the front door. The silence that greets her is deafening. An echo reverberates off of the wood flooring as she slams the door shut behind her, and tugs her sweatshirt over her head. Her arms drop to her sides. _Now what was she supposed to do?_

Her eyes dart across her empty kitchen, landing on the coffee pot. Of course. That's what normal people do at 8am; they drink coffee.

She sets to work turning on the machine. It takes her a good two minutes to find the filters before she remembers that they're on the top shelf. The one that's just an inch out of her reach. Eric always had to get the filters down for her.

She falters for just a second; an unexpected wrench thrown into her plan. For a moment, she contemplates running to her bedroom, changing back into her pajamas, and calling her mom. Screw the damn coffee. She didn't even want it. But then she remembers; she's trying to be normal. It's okay to miss him, but she's got to keep moving forward. At least, that's what they'd told her yesterday at grief counseling.

So she blows out a deep breath, and, ignoring the tears prickling behind her eyelids, pushes the stool from the breakfast bar over, reaches up, and gets the filters down herself. She knows it's crazy, but she swears she can almost hear him say, _Good girl_. _See? You never really needed me around, anyway._

She sniffles, but she makes the coffee. It smells good. Maybe a little bit of caffeine is exactly what she needs. She picks up the pot and is just about to pour herself a mug when she stops dead in her tracks.

She'd set out two coffee cups on the counter, simply out of habit.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she shoves the coffee pot back onto its stand. Some of it sloshes out onto her hand, and she cries out in pain. A bolt of sheer anger courses through her, and she swipes at the mugs blindly, sending them crashing to the floor.

The armchair is in her path, and she grabs the phone before collapsing into it. Tears streaming down her face, she curls into the cushion and numbly sucks on her wounded hand while her other is occupied with dialing the number she's still got memorized, thankful no one had the heart to change it yet:

_Thank you for calling Bank of America, you've reached Eric Forman, Human Resources, extension 238. I'm currently out of my office, but if you leave your name, number, and a short message, I'll give you a call when I return._


	3. Go

**A/N: Once again, thanks so much for the reviews. They mean a lot to an author. I'm glad so many people are enjoying this story. I apologize for it's morbidity... believe me, I don't like the idea of a dead Eric any more than the next person, but I'm (gasp!) having fun trying out this new style. I'm trying to keep everyone in character as much as possible while still keeping an interesting plot. Two more chapters left, hope most of you can stick with me :)**

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It's pretty cold for late October; she pulls her coat around herself tighter, shivering a little from the chill of the graveyard. Even though she's only been here a handful of times, she knows exactly where it is. Where _he_ is. She maneuvers around a small pond, through a thicket, and then, just like that there it is; his tombstone.

Someone else has been by recently; there's a bouquet of flowers resting over his plot. She thinks they're probably from Kitty. She knows that the older woman stops by almost every night on her way home from work. She also knows that no one understands why Donna herself never does.

So as she crouches before his stone, gently lying the freshly cut baby's breath next to Kitty's roses, she rationalizes to herself. It's not that she doesn't miss him. It's just that she doesn't need to be in front of his tombstone in order to talk to him. Hell, most days it feels like she can't get him the hell _out _of her head.

But today... well, today she'd decided to come see him here. Slowly, she eases herself to the ground. She sits cross-legged, staring at the stone in front of her for a long, long time. She can hear the woman a few plots over crying. She shivers again, partly from the cold, and partly because she feels so uncomfortable. She's never felt quite right about talking to a slab of granite, but today she's gonna try.

"Hi." She starts simply, and smiles at his stone. The slight breeze is her only reply. "Happy Friday," she tries again, before burying her hands in her coat pockets and clenching her eyes shut. "Oh ho, this is weird," she mumbles, reopening her eyes and offering the grave an apologetic smile.

A few more awkward seconds pass, and she busies herself with an old tissue she's discovered in her pocket. Finally though, she throws her head back and lets out a low groan of frustration. "Okay, look, I have to talk to you about something. But since I can see that's not really gonna work for us today, I'm just gonna talk, and you can listen, okay?" She readjusts herself so that she's sitting on her knees, bending forward slightly. She can feel the dirt and groundwater soaking through the fabric of her jeans. She doesn't care.

"I..." she cuts off, seemingly unsure of how to start. Finally she sighs. It's not an unhappy sigh, just a confused one. "I got that job. The one in Chicago. I told you about it, remember? They offered me my own column, Eric." Despite her surroundings, her face glows with excitement. Until, that is, her face drops a second later. She fidgets before confiding, lowly, "I'm scared." When she looks up at the headstone again, her eyes are watering. Her voice breaks, "And I really need you right now." A tear slides down her face, and she wipes it away brokenly.

"And, I mean, I know you'd probably want me to go for it. It's a great offer... and I'll be _writing_ again, and it's just..." she trails off and crinkles her face, seemingly unable to come up with a word. She blows out her breath in a huff. "But... I don't know. I mean, it's _Chicago_, Eric. What if I'm not good enough? What if I lose all of my friends and family? What if..." she pauses to blow her nose, "What if I miss you too much?" Her voice breaks again, and she just stares at his name for awhile. "_Fuck_, this hurts so much," she whimpers, resting her cheek against the cool, smooth side of the headstone.

It starts to rain a few minutes later, so she reluctantly heads back to her car. Not without blowing him a kiss through her window, though, and not without getting the answer that she had been looking for (the answer to the one question she hadn't asked) as her car pulls back onto the freeway:

_Go. Be amazing._


	4. First Date

**A/N: Sorry for the long hiatus... this was just one of those chapters that I felt like I never got quite right. This is what I cam up with, though, and I hope that even if this chapter is something that you don't really want to think about, it feels in character. Once again, a huge thank you to each of my reviewers.. you guys are great. Next (and last!) chapter is in progress, I'll try to have it up soon.**

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His name is Nick.

He works in the cubicle across from hers. He writes the sports column, and he always wears a baseball hat. Her second day, she forgot her lunch at home, so he shared half of his ham-and-cheese sandwich with her and told her a funny story about why his tie was inside out. She still remembers that.

He was just as charming tonight, when he'd taken her out. They'd gone to a fancy steakhouse she'd never heard of before. He'd told her that she looked beautiful in her new dress - the product of a weekend shopping with Jackie in New York. He'd pulled her chair out for her, they'd made polite conversation over their entrées, and she'd let him kiss her goodnight. He was a good guy. It was a nice evening. But...

_But_. That's the word that reverberates around her head as she plucks at the straps on her heels and peels her shimmery, special-occasion dress over her head, replacing them with a cotton nightie and toe-socks. He's a nice person, he makes her laugh, and he's the sweet kind of guy who carries pictures of his nieces and nephews in his wallet, _but_, he's no Eric. See, _Eric _would have insisted on holding her car door open for her, even though she'd roll her eyes. He would have played hangman with her while they waited for their food to come, fancy restaurant or not. He would have held her hand while they drove in the car, and done a horrible impression of Elton John when that song came on. Eric's mouth would have been warm and familiar against hers instead of hard and foreign; his hand would have brushed her hip as they pulled away, and he would have smelled like that comforting aroma of fabric softener and just a touch too much cologne instead of an unfamiliar musk.

She shimmies underneath the flannel sheets of her bed, letting the weight of the covers cocoon her, comfort her. She'd known that her first date in three years was going to be a little weird, but she hadn't expected that it would make her feel sick to her stomach. She closes her eyes, and vows to never go on another date again.

It takes about three minutes before she starts to hear his voice in her head:

_Oh, c'mon. It wasn't _that_ bad. He was nice to you. Paid the bill. I mean, really, Donna? What more could you ask for?!_

She can see his smirk in her mind, and she rolls over onto her stomach and thinks for a long time. She opens her mouth and closes it several times, before finally whispering, "He's a really nice guy."

_I know._

She can barely hear him, but he's there.

"I..." she squeezes her eyes shut, apologetically. "I like him."

The voice in her head takes a longer pause this time, but then, once again,

_I know._

She can't tell if he sounds sad or not.

The silence that's fallen is strangling her slowly, so she swipes at her face and whispers, her voice cracking, "I miss you." When she pulls her hand away, it's wet. She hadn't realized she was crying. "I miss you _so_ much," she sniffs. "And I _love_ you. You know that, right?"

_Yeah, I do. _His reply is easy._ But you know that this doesn't have to _change_ that, right?_

She buries her face in a pillow, tired of thinking about this, tired of pretending to be over him, tired of... everything. There's a long, long silence. She thinks he's gone until, softly, _Call him._

She rolls over onto her back and opens her mouth to protest, but he repeats himself, his voice a little raspier than she remembered: _Call him._

"Eric," his name comes out sounding strangled, but she forces it through her stubborn lips as she slowly sits up.

Call _him, woman_, he interjects quickly. _He really likes you, and I just want you to be happy, okay? You deserve it, Donna.__ So you call him up, and you let him take you out again, and you order the most expensive thing on the damn menu, so he knows you're worth it._

And she can't believe it, but it sounds like he's smiling.

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**A/N: Please review!! :)**


	5. You Bet

**A/N: Well this is the end of the road, folks. Hope you enjoyed this story, depressing as it was. I feel like I grew a lot as a writer, since this is just so different from the norm on this site. My next project is to finish up "Drops of Jupiter", so if you like my writing, check out my profile for some E/D stories where Eric makes it out alive, heh. As always, thanks to everyone for reviewing, I appreciate it a lot! :)**

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She's supposed to be in hair and make-up right now. Instead, she's pacing in the hallway, focusing on the soft clacking sound her heels make on the lobby's tile floor. She takes in a few deep breaths to calm herself, even as her vision blurs, and she feels a tear slip out. Ashamed, she brushes it away quickly with the side of her palm. Ten minutes before a widely broadcasted television interview is no time for puffy, red eyes.

"Ms. Pinciotti?"

She whips around in surprise, and the timid looking intern hurries to steady her. People are always doing that these days. She knows she looks breakable.

"I, um," the young man stammers as he pulls back. A piece of his wavy brown hair falls in his eyes as he glances down at his clipboard, then back up at her again, unsurely. "My producer wants me to escort you to Cindy for some last minute touch-ups. We're live in about ten minutes."

She nods, and glances discreetly at his name badge. "Thank you, Hunter," she delivers her very best Award Winning Author smile, "I'll be ready in just one moment."

He nods and steps back, but when she pulls a Kleenex out of her pocket to dab at her eyes, his features soften. "Are you alright, Ma'am?"

She knows she's supposed to nod. She's supposed to wave him off and smile, say that everything's a-ok and she's ready to head over to hair and make-up now. Maybe it's because this kid has such kind eyes, or maybe it's just because it's _today _of all days, but for whatever reason, she shakes her head and sinks down onto one of the uncomfortable lobby couches. "No," she whispers, wringing her hands, "I'm not."

"What's wrong?"

His voice cracks as he gingerly sits down next to her, and even though she knows that he's just doing his job, knows that he's just taking pity on the little old lady, she closes her eyes and whispers, "I forgot what he looks like."

"I'm… I'm sorry, what?" Hunter falters, his arm around her frail frame. She just squeezes her eyes shut tighter, and a few more tears leak out.

"My first husband," Donna inhales sharply, licking her dry, sticky lips. "He'd be 82 today. And," her voice breaks, "and as hard as I try, I just can't picture his face anymore. Why is that?"

Hunter breathes out slowly, methodically. He's thinking. Finally, he murmurs, "Because you've moved on." His sentence pitches at the end, like he's asking her, not answering her question, and she smiles faintly.

"Do you think I have?"

"Yes," He nods decisively. "You've written seven books, you've raised two daughters, you've started your own charity." He offers her another Kleenex when he notices still another tear dripping down her cheek. "Ms. Pinciotti, if you don't mind my asking… it's been nearly 60 years since he died. It still hurts that much?"

"You bet."

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**Please review!! :)**

**Thanks for reading!**


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